


do you feel better now

by shineyma



Series: this world's gonna end [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Infidelity, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-10 19:24:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12918627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: There's more than one kind of fallout.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *waves sad goodbye to chances of doing well this semester, wishing she was better at prioritizing work over fun*
> 
> Okay, you might've noticed this is marked 1 of 2 chapters, and probably you sighed in annoyance because AMY NEVER FINISHES HER WIP, but! Good news! The next chapter is already 100% complete! I originally had it as one big oneshot, but it needed a chapter break so as not to be jarring. So you get this today and then the rest like....tomorrow or the day after. We'll see.
> 
> As per usual for this verse, **warning** for references to physical, mental, and emotional abuse. None of it's on-screen, but if you're triggered by that kind of stuff, you might wanna give this one a miss.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma thinks she’s a little bit broken.

She was handling things quite well, she thought, keeping herself together when all she truly wanted to do was collapse in the middle of the street and sob, or collapse into Grant and sob, or turn herself in and throw herself upon Leopold’s non-existent mercy and sob, but now?

Walking several miles whilst bleeding and shocky, she managed. Reaching Grant, fleeing his apartment, even confessing her horrible crime…she was hardly at her most _coherent_ , but she did manage it.

Grant’s confession—that he’s a mole, that he’s part of the Resistance, that he’s been spying on Hydra for _years_ —is apparently just a step too far. In no time at all, in nothing more than a few heartbeats, she goes from the car to an aircraft hangar to an unfamiliar hallway outside of an unfamiliar room.

She enters it, because the door is open and it seems the thing to do.

She has no idea how she got here.

“There are some clothes for you if you wanna get out of that,” her escort—and when did she get an escort? She’s lost track of Grant somehow, doesn’t remember where he went or when he left (but he was in the hangar with her, wasn’t he?)—says kindly. “Shower’s down the hall, but that’ll have to wait—the roster’s pretty packed. I’m sure Ward’ll work something out for you.”

It takes her a long moment to find her voice, and by the time she summons up a suitably curious tone with which to ask, her “Ward?” is lost to the clank of the door sliding shut. There will be no answers from her escort, it seems—but then, she doesn’t suppose she needs them.

This is Grant’s room. She can tell. She can see him all over it: in the tidy stack of spy thrillers on the dresser, in the handful of loose bullets (really, Grant?) in a dish on the bedside table…she even imagines she recognizes him in the tightness of the bed’s hospital corners, though that’s ridiculous, surely.

But this is his room. That’s not ridiculous, it’s fact.

He has a room here. He has a _life_ here. Books and bullets and the power to find her a spot on the shower roster, people who know him—and know that he’s connected to her. There are no clothes laid out, nothing into which she could change; did her escort think she would simply wear some of Grant’s?

Something burns in her throat, and she doesn’t know enough to discern whether it’s bile or tears, shame or heartbreak. All this time, she’s been keeping this—keeping _him_ —secret, terrified out of her wits, and he…what? Told the whole of the Resistance?

Jemma turns forcefully away from that thought, from the bed with its green quilt and tight corners, and catches sight of herself in the mirror.

Somehow, she’d managed to forget for a moment. In her confusion, in this room, she forgot what she’d done.

She killed Alistair. She killed her own father-in-law, and now she stands in the heart of the Resistance, still wearing a jumper stained with his blood. (Wasn’t she wearing Grant’s hoodie? Where did that go?)

Skin crawling, she rips the jumper off, hissing at a sharp shock of pain from the wound in her arm. Neatly stitched now, she sees, and has no idea when that happened. It was done by a steady hand, at least, and she thinks the scarring will be minimal.

That doesn’t seem right. Killing Leopold’s father should leave a deeper mark than that.

But Jemma knows what happens to people who pick at their stitches, ruining a medic’s hard work—or at least, she knows what happens at Hydra, and surely the Resistance, with its no doubt limited resources, would hold an even harsher punishment—and so she pushes aside any thoughts of doing so. Better to limit the temptation, though, which means finding a new shirt.

As she crosses to the wardrobe, she thinks once again of the assumption that she’ll wear something of Grant’s. Who all knows of their relationship? And why? Is it only that he’s a spy and reports everything to his superiors, or is it—

Jemma’s train of thought derails. Quite spectacularly.

Some of the clothes hanging in the wardrobe are undoubtedly Grant’s, but others…

“I was always planning on bringing you here,” he says quietly, and she doesn’t jump. Her heart skips a beat at the surprise, yes, but the rest of her is frozen, arrested by the wardrobe’s contents.

“These are…”

They’re hers. Well, not _hers_ ; she’s never seen them before in her life. But she recognizes her own taste in them—in the pastels and patterns she once mournfully told Grant about discarding in favor of clothes that would make Leopold happy, that would better fit their image as Hydra’s power couple.

“They’re for you,” Grant confirms.

She toys with the sleeve of a pink dress, rubbing the cashmere between her fingers in wonder.

“Never thought it’d work out this way,” he muses. He sounds so confident, so untroubled; though she doesn’t turn to look at him, she can easily picture the way he must be lounging in the doorway. Grant is never uncomfortable in his own skin, never awkward or out of place. “Most of my plans involved playing knight in shining armor; you know, sweeping you out of there on a white horse. But Jeffrey kept shooting those down.”

Jeffrey.

The name sparks a flash of memory—shaking hands with the Patriot. She doesn’t remember what she said to him, but it must have been friendly or at least polite, because he smiled and welcomed her to the base and called her _Doctor Simmons_.

No one’s called her Simmons in years.

“Was this his idea?” she asks. The burn in her throat has returned.

After a brief, confused pause, Grant asks, “Was what his idea?”

“This.” Jemma grabs a top at random, pulls it on so she has an excuse to focus on anything other than his face. “Us. The Resistance wanted someone close to Leopold, was that it? And you couldn’t get him, but his wife—”

“ _No_ ,” Grant interrupts, voice sharp enough to make her flinch. He sees it, of course, and softens his tone as he takes her by the shoulders. Her wound throbs. “Baby, no. We’re exactly what you thought we were.”

“And what’s that?” she demands tearfully. She hates herself for it, for Grant’s stricken face, but she needs to know. Knowing she doesn’t deserve it doesn’t make her crave the surety—the _security_ of knowing—any less. “What are we?”

“A drunken mistake that turned into the best thing in my life,” he says, sounding no less serious for the smile on his face. “I love you, Jemma. That’s real.”

The world swims—no, that’s just her vision, going blurry as her tears finally spill over. Her heart is so full it could burst, leave splatters like blood all over Alistair’s pristine tablecloth.

She doesn’t deserve this, but she wants it. She wants it so, so badly.

“You do?” she asks. “Really?”

“More than anything,” he vows, and Resistance or not, she believes him.

“I love you, too.” She nearly quails as she says it, puts words to the fullness of her betrayal (if Leopold ever found out…), but she _does_ say it. “I tried not to, but—”

But he’s too kind, too amazing, too _Grant_. She might have said all of it, but she doesn’t get the chance before he cuts her off with a fierce kiss.

It hurts a bit—she has a habit of worrying at her lower lip when she’s upset, and clearly she did quite a lot of it in that lost stretch of time between the car and this room—which Grant must realize, as he pulls back after only a moment.

“I love you,” he says again, pressing a much gentler kiss to her forehead. “Don’t ever doubt it, okay? I wish there’d been a better way to tell you about…all of this, but…”

“It’s all right.” Chilled by—well, everything—she cuddles close to him, slipping her arms around him and smiling when his wrap around her waist in return. He’s so warm, so strong, and she never thought she’d be at any kind of ease around such a dangerous man, but she really, truly is.

“It’s not,” he grumbles, even as he hugs her close. “I never wanted you to think—look, Jeffrey knows because I had to explain why I needed no one to ever drop by my apartment, and because I needed his approval on my plans to get you out of there. Antoine knows because Jeffrey told him before sending him to rendezvous with us. That’s it, okay?” He pauses. “Well, and Skye, obviously.”

Oh. Skye.

Jemma pulls back a little to look at Grant’s face. “Is she—?”

“Resistance? No,” he says, shaking his head. “She’s Hydra through and through. Or at least she was.”

For a moment, she’s puzzled—but then it clicks, and horror floods her.

“Oh, god,” she gasps. “I didn’t even think—when Leopold realizes I went to you, they’ll take her for questioning, they’ll—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” One of his hands slides up her spine, gently urging her back into his embrace. “I texted her a warning before we left for the rendezvous, it’s fine. They can look all they want, they won’t find her.”

She all but collapses against him, shaking with a wholly unnecessary overabundance of adrenaline. Or perhaps it’s merely at her own carelessness. It wasn’t just Alistair’s life she ended tonight; Grant and Skye’s lives have been ruined, too. For Grant, it was likely a long time coming—no mole goes undiscovered forever—but for Skye…

Jemma hides her face in Grant’s chest, shamed at how her thoughtless self-concern has endangered his partner.

“You’re sure she’s safe?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. His hand is still on her back, sweeping up and down in gentle, soothing strokes. Each pass chases the chill of fear and guilt a little further away. “Can’t go out myself right now, obviously, but that’s why I had Antoine show you to our room, so I could send an extraction team for Skye.”

“And she doesn’t know anything about this?” Jemma asks, peeking up at him.

“Nope.” Grant pauses, grimacing. “That’s gonna be a fun conversation.”

His resigned tone surprises a laugh out of her, and he smiles.

“There,” he says, “that’s better.”

With one last squeeze, he lets her go, and turns to grab something from the shelf at the top of the wardrobe.

“It’ll be a while before the team gets back,” he says, “so I’ve got some time. What do you say we get you cleaned up?”

The _something_ he’s retrieved turns out to be a clear purple shower tote, stocked with her favorite shampoo and body wash. The latter changed recently; she doesn’t remember mentioning it to him, but there in the tote is the new floral scent she chose scant weeks ago.

Jemma’s hands might tremble a bit as she accepts it; if they do, Grant’s kind enough not to point it out.

“That sounds lovely,” she says, and it only takes a very little bit of effort to summon a smile for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! A day later, as promised! *bows*

The extraction must be a difficult one. In the end, Jemma has time for a long shower, a change of clothes, a full check-up with a plainly displeased medic, a mild painkiller for her aching arm, _and_ a very late dinner she can only pick at (safe with Grant or not, her stomach is still twisted into awful knots) before they’re called to the Patriot’s office.

Skye is already there when they arrive, handcuffed to a sturdy-looking chair, and the betrayal on her face when she sees Grant is so stark that Jemma can’t help but flinch.

“Good luck,” the Patriot mutters to Grant on his way out the door. It’s not a promising sign.

“What the _hell_ , man?” Skye demands.

“Long story short?” Grant shrugs. “I’m actually a mole for the Resistance. Sorry.”

“You—wh—” Skye mouths soundlessly for a long second, then once again demands, “What the _hell_?!”

“This isn’t how I wanted you to find out,” he says, and pauses to tip an apologetic smile to Jemma—an acknowledgement that he’s already expressed the same sentiment to her (multiple times during dinner alone). “But, yeah. Again, sorry. I definitely didn’t wanna bring you in like this, but…”

“But _what_?” Under all the fury, Skye sounds lost and almost young. “You said you were in trouble. What _happened_?”

“I happened,” Jemma says, and Skye starts like she hadn’t even noticed her. Quite a feat, as Grant is right next to her—holding her hand, no less.

And frowning, now that she’s spoken. “Jemma…”

“No, it—it’s my fault,” she tells Skye, and continues over Grant’s protest, “Alistair realized about Grant and I, and I panicked and—and I killed him.” Her voice cracks a little on the confession; she hurries on in the likely vain hope no one will notice. “Then I panicked more and ran to Grant, which obviously exposed him to no end of risk…and through him, you.”

Skye stares at her, face utterly slack. She seems not even to be breathing.

“So, here you are,” Jemma finishes, a touch uncertainly. “Because of me. I’m so sorry.”

Grant squeezes her hand, but—perhaps accepting that this really is her fault—says nothing. At least, not for a long and uncomfortable moment, during which Skye continues to stare.

“Uh, Skye?” he asks eventually. “You okay there?”

“You—” She mouths wordlessly for a second. “You—”

“I…?” he prompts.

“You’re—” Skye makes a strange, almost spasming motion, as though she’s lost all control of her own limbs in her fury. “You’re _fucking the Doctor’s wife?!_ ”

Grant appears understandably confused by this fairly over-the-top reaction to information Skye already had. “Um, yeah?”

“Wh—and you apologize for being a _mole_? Are you _suicidal_? What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Look,” Grant says, clearly trying—and failing—to sound patient. “We’ve been over this—”

“No we fucking haven’t!” Skye interrupts, voice spiking in something like hysteria. “What the _hell_ , Grant?”

He scowls at her. “Yes, we have. Literally not even a week ago we—”

“I think I would remember learning about your _death wish_!” she snaps over him.

It’s impossible, but—she sounds honestly shocked. A creeping sort of dread wraps itself around Jemma’s heart.

“But you did,” she insists when Grant doesn’t. “You—you walked in on us, and you shouted a bit, and then you agreed not to tell anyone.”

“Okay,” Skye says, voice quieting in a very sudden calm, “A: no I didn’t. And B,” her gaze swings to Grant, “what the hell are you doing fucking the Doctor’s wife where _people can walk in on you_?!”

So much for calm; she’s very nearly shrieking by the end of it.

“We were in my apartment,” Grant says. “You broke in—”

“No, I didn’t!”

“It was our last day off,” he continues doggedly, “and maybe you just got really drunk afterwards and managed to block the memory out, but—”

“ _No, I didn’t_!”

“How do you know?” he demands, releasing Jemma’s hand that he might throw his in the air. “It’s not like it’d be the first time you got black-out drunk!”

If Skye even hears the barb tacked on at the end, she doesn’t give any sign.

“Because I was throwing up all day and never left my apartment!” she snaps.

All the air seems to go out of the room at once; for a long, long moment, nobody speaks. Nobody _breathes_.

“Then who walked in on us?” Jemma asks finally, tremulously. Grant retakes her hand. “And why was she pretending to be you?”

“That,” Grant says, voice low and dangerous, “is a very good question.”

“Here’s a better one,” Skye grumbles. Her anger seems to have dissipated; she looks sullen and sulky as she slumps in her chair, but much less like she’d be hitting people were she not restrained. “How did you not notice she wasn’t me? Seriously, Grant?”

Jemma flushes at the heavy judgment in her tone, but Grant only frowns.

“That _is_ a good question,” he agrees. “Even rattled by her walking in—I would’ve noticed if anything was off. But she looked _exactly_ like you. I even recognized the shirt she was wearing.”

Skye straightens. “You think she had a veil? And, what, broke into my apartment and stole some clothes?”

“Clothes are one thing, but the veils are restricted tech,” he points out. He’s still holding Jemma’s hand; his fingers drum along the back of it thoughtfully. “They’re not easy to steal.”

Skye makes a face in agreement. “Someone went to a lot of effort.”

“But for what?” Grant asks. “All she did was walk in, talk to us for a minute, and leave.”

The summation sparks something, bringing forth a thought Jemma only now realizes has been niggling at her for days.

“Of all people,” she says slowly.

Grant blinks down at her. “What?”

A bolt of ice runs through her. He’s surprised that she’s interrupted him. He’s used to working with Skye, bouncing ideas back and forth; it isn’t Jemma’s place to involve herself. She should apologize, or—no, she shouldn’t say anything else, just wait until he—

Until he _nothing_.

Jemma takes a deep breath, forcing down the panic that’s trying to rise in her throat. Grant isn’t Leopold, she reminds herself sternly. He doesn’t mind that she’s spoken out of turn; he was only surprised that she did. He wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.

“Jem?” he prompts. His eyebrows are scrunched together in concern; it makes her smile and gives her the strength to gather her thoughts once more.

“I thought it was strange at the time, but with the shock, I just let it go.” In lieu of biting at her very tender lower lip, she worries with her sleeve. “Skye—or the imposter, rather—said that she didn’t expect to find me kissing you, of all people. But we were in your apartment.”

Grant goes very still.

“We never thought to ask her,” she continues, “what precisely she thought I was doing there, if not carrying out an affair.”

“She didn’t know it was mine,” Grant concludes. “Not until I told her. And—she said it herself, didn’t she? She was there for you.”

“So, what?” Skye asks. “You being there scared her off?”

Jemma remembers the short, awkward conversation, the imposter’s claim that she didn’t remember why she’d been looking for Jemma, and the hasty exit, and has to nod.

Grant, however, seems to disagree. “There’s more to it than that.”

There is? “What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry about this,” he tells her, and then turns to Skye. “What would you say if I told you the Doctor was an abusive bastard?”

Jemma starts, surprised, and Grant tugs her closer to him. Practically plastered to his side, she can feel what she didn’t before: he’s all but vibrating with tension, with leashed worry and anger.

But his hold on her hand has stayed perfectly gentle throughout. It never so much as tightened.

It must have taken deliberate effort to keep this sort of tension from telling in his grip.

Warmth curls in her chest, and Jemma leans into him, hiding a smile against his arm.

No, Grant isn’t Leopold. He’s nothing at all like him.

“Uh, duh,” Skye says. “I mean—” She grimaces apologetically at Jemma. “—I hoped for your sake he wasn’t, but he does give off that vibe.”

Ah. Now she sees what Grant was thinking. “The woman who walked in on us was shocked. No,” she corrects, “upset. She thought Leopold and I were in love.”

“She wanted to use you against him,” Grant surmises.

“And when she realized she couldn’t, she…what, gave up?” Skye asks skeptically.

“Lotta trouble to go to to walk away empty handed,” he agrees, then pauses. “You were sick?”

She shakes her head. “Food poison…ing. Oh shit.”

It takes Jemma a moment more to catch on; when she does, she winces. If Skye was deliberately incapacitated so as to be kept out of public, the imposter could have gotten up to no end of mischief, wandering around with her face all day.

“We need to figure out where she went and what she did,” Skye says, deadly serious for the first time Jemma can recall. “Not to mention who the fuck she is. My first guess would be Resistance, but…?”

“I’d know,” Grant says in answer to the implied question. “If nothing else, they’d want me to be able to cover for her if something went wrong. So she’s not Resistance.”

“And not Hydra.” Jemma shifts uncomfortably at the raised eyebrows her addition earns from Skye. “If she were Hydra, she wouldn’t have kept my infidelity quiet.”

(And Jemma would be in dire straits, but Alistair would still be alive. She would be in pain, no doubt, suffering the worst torture Leopold could conceive of, but at least she wouldn’t have killed a man.

…Except she would have, wouldn’t she? Alistair would be alive, but _Grant_ would have been executed with great prejudice.

With that in mind, she can’t bring herself to regret the way things actually unfolded. It sickens her to admit it, but—she’d rather be a murderer than see Grant dead. She really would.)

“Good point,” Skye nods, drawing her out of her thoughts, “and with that, I’m out of guesses on _who_. Let’s go back to _what_. Did she say anything, mention any plans?”

Jemma breathes in through her nose, trying to collect herself enough to think back to that encounter. It’s difficult, though, with her stomach still turning over this new realization about her own character.

Grant, apparently, is suffering no such distraction. “You know anyone named Mack?”

The name rings a bell for Jemma even as Skye shakes her head.

“She said he was her new boyfriend,” Jemma remembers. “Or, no…”

“I _asked_ if he was her new boyfriend,” Grant says, “she just went with it. She said his name like we were supposed to recognize it.”

“She had bad intel?” Skye guesses, though she doesn’t sound like she believes it herself. “Good enough to make you believe she was me, but not to know that it was your apartment _or_ that I don’t know anyone named Mack…?”

It does sound rather far-fetched.

“Why would she say his name at all?” Jemma wonders. “Surely the first rule of undercover work is not to name your accomplices?”

“Good question,” Grant says, smiling wryly. “Again.”

“Yeah, we’re just swimming in those,” Skye mutters. “Too bad we don’t have any ans—”

Mid-word, she freezes, gaze going distant as though locked on something only she can see.

“Skye?” Grant asks.

It’s almost eerie, how still she’s gone; Jemma finds herself holding her own breath out of habit and forcefully exhales.

“ _Skye_ ,” Grant says again, more insistently.

Skye doesn’t move.

“Hold on,” he murmurs to Jemma. He gently urges her back a few steps and then releases her in order to approach Skye. “Skye, are you—?”

She interrupts him with a sudden, gasping inhale and a full-body jerk so violent she knocks her chair over. As she’s still handcuffed to it, this serves to put her on the floor, and Grant hurries the last few steps to kneel next to her.

Jemma hangs back. Her thoughts have slowed in that particular way that means an epiphany is lingering in the wings, waiting to make itself known. Disconnected pieces are beginning to slot themselves together, forming a new, comprehensive picture.

“What the hell? Do you need a doctor or what?”

“No. I’m good. Sorry. Um, what were you saying?”

“I was _asking_ if you were okay, y’know, before you had some kind of _fit_ or something—”

“I said I’m fine, Ward.”

“The hell you are. I’m calling a medic. The extraction team must’ve hit you too hard.”

“…Yeah, maybe. You mind uncuffing me while you’re at it?”

“Only if you’ll promise not to punch me for—”

“Wait,” Jemma says, and then again, “Wait.”

“Jemma?” Grant asks.

Her peripheral vision catches him twisting to look at her, but she can’t pull her gaze away from Skye. Skye who just suffered some sort of episode. Skye who was impersonated so perfectly that her own partner didn’t realize.

Skye who just called Grant _Ward_. It’s not proof of anything, not really, but…

“What were you saying?” Jemma asks her.

In response, she freezes—but it’s not the eerie, total stillness of a moment ago, just a guilty sort of pause.

“I, uh…”

“It was something about Mack,” she prompts, and Skye’s face relaxes.

“Right! Yeah, things are going great. In fact, we have a date which I…am guessing I might not make,” she says, looking pointedly at the handcuffs.

Grant stands slowly. “That’s not what you were saying.”

“It’s not?” Skye asks, sounding a bit hunted.

“No,” he says, and takes a single sideways step to place himself firmly between Skye (if indeed that’s who she is) and Jemma. “You were telling us you don’t know anyone named Mack.”

She sighs heavily. “Crap.”

“What is this?” Grant demands. “Some kind of split personality thing?”

That’s a possibility, certainly, and one Jemma hadn’t considered—but no. Her conclusion is the correct one. She knows it. She can _feel_ it.

(And even if it isn’t, Grant isn’t Leopold. He won’t be upset if she’s wrong.)

“There’s a project,” she says, and he turns slightly in her direction. Not so far that he’s forced to take his eyes off of Skye, but far enough that she knows he’s listening. “Something Leopold’s been working on. It’s top secret, so I don’t know much about it, but—it’s called Project Looking Glass. It’s something to do with parallel universes.”

At that, Grant actually _does_ take his eyes off Skye, the better to gape at Jemma. “You don’t think—”

“And Ophelia’s been talking for _years_ about an invasion,” she hurries on. “I always thought it was theoretical—she’s quite paranoid—but…”

“So what are you saying?” he asks. “Some…invader from a parallel universe just possessed our Skye?”

Put to words, it’s far-fetched and ridiculous. Even so, Jemma nods.

“Okay, wait,” the (potential) invader interjects. “Let’s not go crazy with the theories, okay?” She sounds a bit anxious; understandable, in light of the scowl Grant’s giving her. Jemma is certain he’s considering how best to rip this intruder out of Skye. “I can explain everything.”

Grant backs away from her, returning to Jemma’s side long enough to take her hand and steer her over to the couch near the door. She feels a bit odd about sitting—‘Skye’ is still on the floor, handcuffed to her overturned chair, and Grant plainly intends to remain on his feet—but, realizing that he wants her in a defensible position, does so.

That handled, Grant once again puts himself between them. Even from the back, he’s suddenly intimidating: his broad shoulders squared, his arms crossed, his face no doubt set in angry lines. Agent Ward has replaced her lover; Jemma doesn’t at all blame the invader for her nervous swallow.

“Talk fast,” Grant suggests grimly, and it’s no surprise when the false Skye does exactly that.

What she _says_ , on the other hand…‘surprise’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.


End file.
